A Dangerous Man
by Foreword
Summary: Oz character Chris Keller, about six months before he is caught and sentenced to serve 88 years in Oswald Penitentiary.


_This is my first Oz story. I've recently discovered the series and have been making my way through all of the seasons on dvd. There are some amazing performances by a lot of actors in this series, but my favorite character by far is that of Chris Keller, played by Chris Meloni. Keller is a charming bad boy psychopath who knows how to manipulate people into getting exactly what he wants. _

_In this story, I've gone back in time to before Keller is imprisoned at Oz. I've tried to incorporate details gathered from the show into how I imagine Keller to have lived before he was caught and sentenced. Feedback welcome!_

A Dangerous Man

Chris Keller stepped out of the shower and, grabbing a towel from the rack, started drying himself as he walked out to the bedroom of the efficiency he was renting. _What a dump! _He reminded himself that it was only temporary; as soon as he found a mark and some money he'd be able to afford something better.

He stopped to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Dropping the towel to the floor, he took inventory. _Not bad for 35._ As often as he moved around, he always made sure to find a gym. He still had plenty of hair, and the tattoo of a crucifix that covered his bicep was impressive. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the night he got that tattoo. He was higher on esctasy, just having conned Bonnie into marrying him for the first time. He felt like a god and wanted a symbol to remind himself of that feeling.

From his duffel bag he started digging out clothes for the night. It was his practice to stay ready to go at a moment's notice. Why bother unpacking when he wouldn't be staying long? He pulled on black jeans (commando style, for easy access later) and a dark gray, form fitting t-shirt. The final pieces were black motorcycle boots and a black leather jacket. He'd checked out this bar the night before and knew that this look would make him stand out. Most of the patrons were young, yuppy types coming straight from the office in their pressed khakis, dress shirts and ties. A bad boy in motorcycle garb would be sure to garner some attention.

At the door, he took one last look around the room to make sure all was in order before flicking off the lights. In the parking lot he climbed on his motorcycle and turned it on, putting on his helmet and attaching the second one he'd brought along to the back of his bike.

It was a ten-minute ride to the bar, a rundown place called Rumours. Chris circled the parking lot until he found just the space he wanted, close enough to the bar to not be vandalized, but in a dark enough spot for discretion. He took off his helmet, ruffled up his helmet hair and strolled over to the front door. Two young men in their twenties were just leaving and he held the door open as they stumbled out, holding each other up.

"Hey, thanks," said one of them, grinning foolishly.

"No problem," replied Chris, returning his trademark charming smile. "I hope you two aren't driving."

"We called a cab," he assured him. As they walked away, Chris heard one of them say "He was pretty hot for an old guy."

Chris smiled to himself, shook his head and walked into the bar. _Old guy? _He stood to the side of the doorway, assessing the set up of the bar. At 10 pm, it was more than half full, groups sitting at tables, a crowd around the pool table in the back and a few solitary drinkers at the bar. He ordered a draft and took it to stand near the pool table to watch the action. As he expected, the crowd was mostly young office worker types, ties loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up. He noticed a few curious stares as he stood there. After watching a few games, he reached in his pocket for some quarters and walked over to set them on the side of the table to indicate that he wanted to challenge the winner of the next game. The young blond man currently in the lead had won all of the games since he'd been watching, but Chris was sure he'd have no problem beating him. Blondie gave him an appraising look and then nodded, acknowledging his new competition. Chris leaned against the wall with his beer and waited.

Blondie accepted the high-fives of congratulations from his buddies at the end of the game and gave the loser a commiserating slap on the back before turning to Chris with a raised eyebrow. Setting his beer on a nearby table, Chris went over to the rack of pool sticks and tried a few before settling on one that felt right to him.

"I'm Kevin," said Blondie, picking up a ball and handing it to Chris. He took one for himself and they positioned themselves at the head of the table for the shot. Chris's ball returned closest to the head and he reached for the rack to position the balls. He didn't offer his name, but gave Kevin a broad, challenging smile. Kevin looked to be in his mid-twenties, blond and buff. He wore a blue striped shirt that accented his blue eyes, the sleeves rolled up.

Chris controlled the table for the first six balls, but then missed a tricky shot. He deliberately didn't move back so that the young man had to squeeze past him to get to the spot he needed. When Blondie looked at him quizzically, Chris gave him another big smile and winked. While his opponent was sizing up his shot, Chris took off his leather jacket and hung it over the back of an empty chair. He picked up his beer and took a long swallow, keeping his eye on Blondie. It didn't escape his attention that the kid was checking out his physique in the tight fitting t-shirt. Chris grinned and continued to stare as Blondie took his shot. The attention must have rattled him, because he missed, turning the table back over to Chris. And, like Chris, Blondie didn't move out of the way when Chris stepped up to the table, providing another opportunity for some physical contact_. Perfect! He's doing all the work for me._

Chris won the game, but declined to play again. Two other men took their places at the table. He took a seat at an empty table with his beer, and as he expected, Blondie soon pulled out the chair next to him and sat down.

"Good game," said Blondie, setting down his own drink. "I've never seen you before—you from around here?"

"No," said Chris without elaborating. He took a long swallow of his beer. "You?"

"I work down the street at Riley & Babcock," answered Blondie, motioning with his hand to indicate the rest of the room. "Most of us here do."

Chris nodded and said nothing. He drank his beer and watched the game.

"What do you do?" asked Blondie.

"Do?" asked Chris, pretending to be confused.

"For a living—where do you work?" Said Blondie.

"I'm between jobs right now," replied Chris.

"You're not much of a talker, are you?" asked Blondie when Chris didn't offer up anything else.

Chris turned and gave him a slow, lazy smile. "No."

"That's ok, I like quiet guys." Said Blondie. Chris felt a hand slide into his lap and between his legs. He reached down and grasped Blondie's wrist hard enough to make him gasp, but didn't allow him to pull his hand away.

"I'm…sorry" gasped Blondie, obviously in pain. "I guess I read you wrong."

"Not in here." Said Chris softly. "I'm going to leave. Meet me outside in five minutes."

Blondie grinned. "Sure."

In the parking lot, Chris sat on his motorcycle, waiting for the kid to find him. He soon exited the building wearing a ridiculous varsity jacket and when he saw Chris, hurried over to him. Chris handed him the extra helmet. Blondie took the helmet, but hesitated before putting it on.

"Where are we going?" he asked, turning the helmet over in his hand.

"I know a nice, private spot not too far from here," replied Chris, "Get on."

Blondie put the helmet on and climbed on behind Chris, holding on tightly as he revved up the bike and pulled out of the parking lot. At the first stop light, Chris turned his head and asked: "You tell anyone where you were going?"

"I just told the guys I was heading home," replied Blondie. "Why?"

"I like my privacy," said Chris, and gunned the engine.

It took about five minutes of riding to get to the spot he'd found earlier, a commuter parking lot adjacent to a walking trail that circled a small lake. He'd taken the precaution of throwing a rock at the street light in the corner of the lot and now directed his bike to that dark corner.

"What is this place?" asked Blondie nervously, taking off his helmet and handing it to Chris. He looked around uncertainly as Chris again buckled the helmet to the back of the bike. He set his own on the seat.

"A quiet place," said Chris. He reached a hand behind Blondie's neck and pulled him toward him, kissing him roughly. Blondie slid his hand down between Chris's legs again, fumbling for his zipper. Chris pulled away.

"Over here," he said, motioning toward the trail. "There's a bench."

It was an overcast evening, and without the street light, they had to pick their way carefully down the narrow path toward the water. There the trail widened, and as Chris had promised, they found a bench. Chris sat down and spreading his legs, stared up at Blondie.

"Blow me," he said, his voice husky. Blondie grinned.

"Age before beauty!" he quipped, checking the ground in front of Chris before getting on his knees. He reached again for Chris's zipper. "You'll do me, right?"

"Right," said Chris. He stared down at the blond young man as he deftly unzipped his jeans and pulled out his already hard cock, groaning as he felt his warm mouth close over him. He watched the blond head bobbing up and down and wondered again what made him want this so much. He loved women; he'd been _married four times for christsakes_. He supposed it all went back to his first stint in prison at 17, when Vern Schillinger had saved him from the black guys-but not without a price. Here he was, almost twenty years later, acting it all out again, except now he was the older man in charge.

But that didn't make him gay, did it? He didn't see himself as a faggot and sure as hell didn't want anyone else seeing him that way. He pushed all thought from his mind and gave into the sensations below. This kid was good. Feeling himself about nearing climax, he felt for the rock he'd placed on the bench earlier. Holding it with one hand, he pushed Blondie's head down on his cock with the other. He exploded with a groan, and then, as soon as Blondie released him, bashed the young man in the temple with the rock. Blondie went down hard and fast, without making a sound.

Chris stood up, panting. He tucked himself in and zipped up his pants. Taking a small flashlight out of his pocket, he checked the bench for anything left behind. Nothing. The kid had swallowed every drop. Rolling the unconscious body, he checked for a wallet. The driver's license showed an eve younger version of Kevin McCarthy and several credit cards. Chris ignored those and checked for cash. Over three hundred dollars—must have been payday. He pocketed the money and threw the wallet out into the lake. Picking up the rock, he bashed the kid again—and again, until he couldn't his face was unrecognizable and there were no breathing sounds. He stood up, tossed the rock in the lake after the wallet and headed for his bike.

Back in the efficiency, he took another long shower, then took a beer out of the mini frig and sat on the bed. He turned on the television and started flipping through the channels, pausing at a news flash about a prominent local attorney who'd been driving drunk and struck and killed a young girl on a bicycle a few months earlier. _"Attorney Tobias Beecher was sentenced today, receiving fifteen years for one count of vehicular manslaughter. He will serve his sentence in the Oswald Penitentiary."_

"Poor slob," chuckled Chris, and picked up the remote to change the channel.


End file.
